The Desired Effect
by Ista
Summary: Human Castiel comes down with a serious cold, and it's up to Sam and Dean to help him out. But will Cas ever trust Dean again after the events of 9.3? Sickfic, with plenty of bromancing, comforting Sam, guilty Dean, and shameless Cas whump!
1. Lonely Town

**The Desired Effect**

 **Summary:** Human Castiel comes down with a serious cold, and it's up to Sam and Dean to help him out. But will Cas ever trust Dean again after the events of 9.3? Sickfic, with plenty of bromancing, comforting Sam, guilty Dean, and shameless Cas whump!

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own anything related to _Supernatural._ Darn.

 **Warning:** Lots of hurt!Cas.

 **A/N:** This is my third _Supernatural_ fic. It's mostly the product of watching "I'm No Angel" and wanting to cry and/or slap Dean for how he treated Cas at the end. Also, I just can't stop my obsession with torturing poor Castiel, and it's my first attempted sick fic. I'd love to hear comments, suggestions, and feedback in any shape or form. You are all so awesome! And, yes, the title of this fic and chapter titles are all from Brandon Flowers' new solo album. I can't get enough of it!

 **Chapter 1: Lonely Town**

Castiel spent the night alternating between hacking coughs and tossing from his right to left side, though it didn't really matter which side he slept on since the sleeping bag was too thin to cushion his aching body from the cold hardness of the floor, and breathing from his nose was nearly impossible. Being a relatively new sensation, Castiel absolutely loathed it. Not only was the stuffiness claustrophobic, but it forced him to breathe through his mouth, which inevitably made his tongue dry and scratchy, like an old sock.

The former angel had experienced pain before—human levels of pain. He had plunged into the depths of Hell, he had dealt with the starvation of his soul in Purgatory, and he had physically bled time and time again, but this illness was a whole new level of agony. This was the cold that wouldn't die.

Nora, his boss, had recommended several over-the-counter remedies, but Castiel loathed buying anything other than food, soap, and toothpaste with his low income. He eventually succumbed to buying a bag of cough drops when the burning pain in his throat prevented him from helping customers. The honey lemon, mixed with a bitter minty flavor called menthol, soothed his throat but didn't diminish his intense coughing attacks, which nearly doubled him over.

Nearly a month had passed, and Castiel was still sick. Refusing to take any time off work, he saw the way that his co-workers, and sometimes customers, would look at him with pity in their eyes.

Tossing and turning in his sleeping bag, Castiel shivered in the unheated back room and tried not to think about his cell phone. He tried not to think about the only two numbers in his contacts list. He wasn't _that_ sick. He would get better.

 _Dean wouldn't help me anyway._

Castiel curled in on himself as another burst of coughing brought tears to his eyes. Usually, he would wipe them hastily away, but that night, in the cold emptiness of the back of the store, Castiel let them continue to fall.

* * *

He dreamt that he was in Hell. But this time, _he_ was the one who was stuck down there. Fire rippled across his back like a whip, and he breathed in its noxious smoke, burning his lungs. He struggled to inhale pure air, but all he felt was pain.

There was the sound of raucous laughter, cruel and taunting as the lashes fell. Castiel gritted his teeth and stifled cries from the agony. Beside him, another figure cried out, his shouts mirroring his own. It took Castiel a few moments to realize that the person was Sam.

 _Not Sam,_ he thought desperately. _Please not Sam._

Even more surprising was the burst of white light that blinded him, shooting down from above into the depths of darkness and flame. It cast beams of luminescence over Sam's too-pale body, scarred multiple times, lacerations running across his eyes and lips. Castiel wondered if Sam's condition also reflected his own.

And the light—it was angelic, certainly not of the realm of Hell. Castiel eagerly looked upon his rescuer, and the words caught in his raspy throat when he finally beheld the figure.

"Dean…?"

The man was wearing a plain grey suit, his face expressionless and silhouetted by the white light. It seemed to be emanating from (Castiel had to blink) his wings, which spread out, white and trembling.

"Dean," Sam choked out too. "Help!"

The older Winchester viewed Castiel, their eyes locked, and then Dean bowed his head. He shook it.

"I'm sorry, Cas," he murmured and turned away.

"No," Castiel whispered, watching with dawning realization as Dean grabbed Sam, pressed his hand to his shoulder…

"NO!" Castiel screamed as the two men were rising up, up, up on the grace of those wondrous wings. The light left with them, until it was a small circle, like a flashlight's beam peeking out of an endless starless sky. Castiel was plunged into darkness and felt the whip strike down again—

He jerked awake in pain as a spasm tore through his back. With the physical discomfort came a familiar shrill beeping in his ears.

 _Not actually Hell. Just Monday morning._

Castiel leaned over and pushed the OFF button on his alarm clock with a half moan, half sigh. He usually woke up at 4:30 AM, a half hour before other co-workers arrived, so that he could roll up his sleeping bag and splash cold water on his face. It was imperative that he keep his sleeping arrangements secret, but it was also a chance for Castiel to get some extra work done, get the coffee machines percolating, scrub the bathrooms clean, and watch the sun rise.

Today, however, was not shaping up to be his most productive morning. Every limb seemed sore and soaked with heaviness. A thick fog lingered in Castiel's thoughts, and as he shuffled around the break room, he realized that today might be the day he actually needed coffee.

Previous attempts had not been pleasant to his taste buds. Bitter and caustic, the dark brew left an unsavory aftertaste on his tongue and a sour stomach. But Castiel had seen the positive benefits of coffee through his co-workers. Trevor and Kathy would file into work with dark circles under their eyes, and, in a matter or minutes, be laughing and chattering about the previous night's escapades. This is why Castiel diligently made the coffee each dawn—to appease his co-workers and ease their transition from sleeping to waking up. However, this morning, Castiel himself was in a desperate need to wake up.

He set the coffee pot up, turned it on, and trudged to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. Castiel's throat burned dryly, so sore that he could barely swallow. And the water sent shooting sparks of pain through his body, which caused shivering, which caused another coughing attack. Castiel leaned over the sink miserably, waiting for the coughing to abate, and willing himself not to topple over. Eventually, the coughing ceased, leaving his throat in an even worse condition. Carefully, he took one of his last cough drops from his pocket and placed it in his mouth, gripping the sides of the sink and trying to stop trembling.

When he finally lifted his head he despised the image that met him in the mirror—black bags drooping under each eyelid—hollow and sunken cheeks, pale skin, and a thin layer of stubble over his face. He tried to remember a time when his visage carried strength and instantly demanded respect, a time when his eyes alone could pierce an enemy and freeze them to the spot. Now his eyes were bleary, watery, and weak. The same could be said for the rest of his body while he had been ill; he hadn't had much of an appetite, and he had been sleeping less and less.

 _But hadn't Dean said humans needed at least four hours?_

Castiel sighed and rubbed shaving cream across his face, drawing a razor up, focusing as hard as he could to steady his shaking hand. Slowly, he performed this morning ritual until an obnoxious beeping sound caused the hand holding his razor to jerk.

Hissing sharply in pain, Castiel viewed the thin red line dripping down his cheekbone with disdain. _Just perfect._ He finished shaving, moving gingerly around the cut before splashing his face with more frigid water. Castiel hastily tore a strip of toilet paper off the roll and pressed it to the knick in his face, stuffing another wad under his nose to try and clear it.

After washing his hands, Castiel returned to the main part of the store where he began turning on lights. He pressed a button, and the beeping on the coffee machine ceased. His face still stinging from the close shave, the ex-angel poured a small amount of steaming coffee into a Styrofoam cup. To it, he added a dairy creamer and two packets of sugar. Perhaps the extras would improve its taste. Having learned the hard way about checking the temperature of food and beverages before consuming them, Castiel waited a few minutes before bringing the caffeinated brew to his lips.

He sipped a large mouthful and instantly regretted it because it was scalding. Choking on the burning bitter substance, he spat it back out and threw the cup away. Wincing, Castiel poked his tongue out and felt the bite of air touch it. Castiel moaned— _perfect again_ —at his now burned tongue.

Next, he faced his arch-nemesis—the blue slushie machine. Over the past few weeks, he had mastered the art of loading, unloading, and cleaning it. But the machine was still determined to get the best of him. Already distracted by his burnt tongue and impaired by his plugged ears, Castiel didn't hear when the fresh pack of slushie mix clicked into place. Thinking it was already in order, Castiel let go to disastrous consequences. The corner of the bag caught on a hook for a cup container on the way down, and it slid out of his hands, simultaneously spilling its sticky blue contents down his front side on the way down, meeting the tile floor with a wet _thwack!_

Castiel stood still a few moments, trying to decide whether to scream or cry. He eventually settled down and simply began the arduous task of mopping up the slimy blue contents from the floor and re-loading the machine. The second time it worked, and Castiel put the cleaning supplies back in the supply closet, washing his hands before going to the front of the store.

Nora, his boss, was right on time, breezing through the front doors as per usual, with the jingle of a bell, just as Castiel opened them. She shook her honey-colored hair, which Castiel had at one time thought was very lovely, and beamed at him.

"Good morning, Steve!"

Castiel's back was to her, and he waved awkwardly while he finished unlocking the doors.

"Coffee?" she asked before putting her purse in the back.

"No, thank you," was what Castiel was going to say, but it came out sounding like a muffled grunt.

"What was that?" she called from the back of the store.

Castiel swallowed a sandpaper-dry throat and attempted to clear it, coughing a few times painfully before getting out the clearest words he could muster. It still sounded like, "Doh tank you." He sighed and started heading towards the register. Suddenly he felt a presence directly behind him, and he spun around to find Nora right next to him, concern leaking out of her blue eyes.

"Steve, you sound awful!"

Castiel could only manage a glum shrug, and then he followed his manager's gaze as it scrolled down his dye-soaked outfit. The blue vest hid the color well, but his white undershirt and khaki pants were completely drenched.

"It was…um…the machine again, and…uh—"

"A smurf attacked you?"

Castiel looked up at Nora, extremely confused, but then he saw the softness in her expression; reading humans was something he was getting quite good at. Her face made him relax—she wasn't displeased with him after all. But it still irked him to know that the company's product had been wasted. Nora couldn't possibly understand how much he needed this job, or perhaps she could, judging from the way the corners of her mouth creased with worry, the way Dean's sometimes would.

The thought of his old friend sent a shiver down his spine, and suddenly the store's temperature seemed to creep up fifteen degrees. The fluorescent lights above him began to spin.

"Steve?" came Nora's concerned tone.

Castiel clutched the metal counter for support, willing his breath to come out evenly and the dizziness to stop. Thankfully, it did, and Castiel looked up apologetically at his boss.

"I am sorry. I haven't been feeling well. I will change my clothes and—"

At Castiel's attempt to move, Nora placed both hands on his shoulders, stopping him in his tracks. Castiel felt a surge of fear whip through him. What was Nora doing? Firing him?

"I think you should take the day off."

Castiel pointed to the break room. "But I have an extra change of clothes—"

"Steve, you've been sick for ages. Go see a doctor, take the day off, and take care of yourself!"

Her hands remained on his shoulders, firm and steady. Try as he might, Castiel couldn't avert his eyes from her own commanding gaze.

"I…I feel fine. Really. I want to work, Nora. Please let me stay." Castiel wriggled free of her grasp, attempting an escape to the break room, but Nora blocked his way. It was moments like these that made Castiel long for his flying abilities. They just made everything easier.

"I'm not convinced you're fine. Some of your co-workers are starting to get worried about you, and so am I. So do us all a favor and _take the day off."_

Castiel bit his lip, standing in place. He wanted to tell Nora the truth. He hated lying to her about sleeping in the back, but he had nowhere else to go.

Nora must have sensed his unease because she placed a hand on his arm in a motherly way. "Steve, you're the best employee I've ever had. I'd hate to have you get sicker and not intervene when you're not looking out for your own health. Take a break. Call back in tomorrow, and give me an update."

Castiel knew his fate had been sealed when he nodded compliantly and slowly walked to the break room to gather his rolled-up sleeping bag and duffel with his extra change of clothes, bar of soap, toothbrush, and toothpaste. Buried deep in the duffle was his old trench coat, a reminder of his old life, too painful to be viewed directly. But at this moment he needed to salvage it for one purpose: in one of its pockets was his cell phone.

Sitting alone in the break room, lined with green lockers, he silently turned it on. As the screen lit up, Castiel began to hear the faint patter of rain on the store's roof. Could his day get much worse?

Sniffling, he ran a sleeve across his nose and scrolled through his contacts list. The sight of Dean's name almost made him start coughing again because all those bitter memories he had kept hidden away over the past two months began to surface again.

He had barely recovered from his (not just near) death experience—living homeless and afraid—when Dean had sat him down and told him he was not welcome to live with him and Sam in the bunker, that he had to go away, leave permanently. Castiel remembered being speechless as Dean had shoved a crumpled hundred-dollar bill into his hands and walked him out the door. Castiel had too much pride to show his emotions to Dean, but when he had gotten a block away from the bunker, Cas had broken down.

Pain was all he associated with Dean Winchester.

However…

Castiel chose one contact on his phone and listened to the rain pick up outside as his voice echoed inside the dark and empty break room.

"Sam? I need your help."

* * *

At 5:30 in the morning, Sam Winchester put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, checked his wallet for one of his IDs, took the keys to the Impala, and left a note on a table in the motel room stating that he was going out for a run and getting some groceries. It was a gloomy spring morning in Idaho Falls, and Sam felt anxious. What if Dean figured out what he was doing? _Don't be paranoid_ , he thought to himself. In all likelihood, Dean would still be asleep by the time he got back, but if his older brother _did_ happen to wake up early, his note was typical and non-suspicious. Besides, Dean probably didn't even know that Castiel was only half an hour away, in Rexburg. Sam had certainly been surprised by the phone call.

Castiel had only spoken with him moments ago, and Sam's mind was still spinning. Yes, the angel had sounded like crap, but it wasn't the condition of his voice that concerned him; it was the content of his message.

The younger Winchester had even made Cas go back and say it over again because it was just too weird. Maybe it was his recently-asleep brain still trying to wake up.

"You want me to give you a ride to a motel?"

"Yes…" the crackly voice had stated plainly, even deeper and gruffer than Castiel's normal tone. "The nearest motel is three miles away off the interstate."

"And you don't want Dean to know what you're doing, or what I'm doing with you…" Sam's voice trailed off, and he winced. _That_ had sounded wrong. "Can you tell me why?"

"It doesn't involve him." A cold, immediate response, almost reminiscent of the old days, the no-nonsense angel of the Lord Cas had once been.

"You sure you haven't been possessed or something? 'Cause this is sounding _really_ weird, Cas."

There had been a pause on the other end, then something else. Was it a sigh?

"I know, Sam. But… _please._ I need your help."

Sam Winchester didn't need to hear another word. Cas was like family. If he needed help, Sam would eagerly volunteer, Dean or no Dean.

"Be right over."

That's how Sam found himself driving to a Gas-N-Sip off the highway at approximately 5:45 in the morning. Beside him was a stashed Remington shotgun. It never hurt to be too careful, especially when your early morning outing involved an ex-angel.

* * *

It had been raining consistently since Sam left the motel, but once he reached the interstate, it started coming down in thick torrents, shimmering off his windshield and beating down upon the hood mercilessly. Sam slowed down, afraid he might miss the tiny convenience store in the downpour. A few miles later, he spotted it.

Dim lights in the parking lot shone down on a small blue and white store. Already a few customers were filing in and pumping gas before their morning commutes. Sam swung in around the back, planning to go inside and meet Cas.

But he didn't have to.

There was a figure standing by the back of the store in the midst of the showers, standing clutching a grey duffle and a rolled-up sleeping bag, clinging to them as if he was a small child and they were the only stuffed animals he had left after the fire.

It was Cas.

Sam pulled up alongside him then popped open the passenger side door. Castiel approached the car warily, peering inside, but his shoulders relaxed when he saw who it was.

 _What the hell is going on?_ thought Sam. Why would Castiel look at the Impala with fear?

"Hello, Sam," came Castiel's voice, so hoarse that it was almost unintelligible.

"Get inside, Cas," said Sam, almost too snippy, but he figured Castiel wasn't exactly firing on all thrusters to be standing out in the rain in the first place. Either very sick or very sad…

Sam set the gun in the back, and Castiel dumped his bag beside it. Then he almost collapsed in his seat, closing the door as if he had the muscles of a ninety-year-old man.

"Don't you know you could catch your death in rain like that?" Sam chided. It wasn't like him to be a motherly asshole, but he figured Dean wasn't around, and somebody had to tell Castiel how it was. For as old as Cas was, Sam still thought of him as someone younger and more naive.

"Death?" Castiel rasped, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Already met him, thanks."

Sam was about to drive away when he stopped and put the Impala in park. There was something he didn't like about the angel's smile, something very close to desperation, to giving up. And, physically, Cas appeared not too far off from that. Aside from being drenched, hair mussed up, and plastered to his forehead, his clothes were covered in a blue goo, and there was a trickle of blood running from a fresh cut on his cheek. His eyes were sunken and hazy, unfocused in a dazed sort of way. No, Cas didn't look good at all.

"What the hell happened to you?" Sam asked.

"I burnt my tongue," Cas replied.

Sam paused. "O…kay." And he drove off.

The remaining car ride was bound to be uncomfortably silent, so Sam began by trying to fill in the void with small talk.

"It's lucky that we happened to be in the same state. Dean and I are investigating a possible ghoul…" Sam looked over at Cas. He was staring out the window. Sam continued. "It's lurking around a playground…" No response.

That's when Sam gave up and pressed the angel-turned-human for some straight answers.

"So where to?"

"Motel," Castiel muttered, his voice a cough.

Sam drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the rain flicker in front of him. "Yeah, I know, but which one?"

Cas shrugged as if he didn't care.

Sam decided to try again. "I mean, which one are you staying at?"

Castiel looked up, eyes watery, his head shaking back and forth, and it finally sunk in for Sam, that Cas didn't _have_ anywhere to go.

"Jesus, dude! Where have you been staying the past two months?"

The other man didn't even admonish him for his blasphemy, just dipped his head and jabbed a thumb back at his sleeping bag. And it all fell into place like some magical (and ridiculously sad) jigsaw puzzle.

"Shit, Cas! You mean you've just been living in the store all this time? Were you caught and got fired? Is that what this is all about?" Sam was getting damn tired of asking so many questions, but Castiel's answers were just not satisfactory.

Castiel seemed to physically struggle forming his words. "No, not fired. Sick. Boss told me…take the day off."

And Sam finally noticed the bloodshot eyes, the pale face, the running nose of the man beside him—recognized it as sickness—and wanted to kick himself for not realizing sooner. Cas had never been human before. Who knew what kinds of havoc germs might wreak on his new system?

"Okay, man. I'm gonna take you back to our motel and make you some chicken soup, and everything will be all right."

Sam was about to turn the car around, ignition running, when Castiel abruptly pulled the parking break up, and both men jerked back. Good thing Dean wasn't there, or he might've pushed Cas out of the Impala and back into the rain.

"Woah woah woah!" Sam said, more shocked by the livid expression on Castiel's face than his actions. Veins were visible along his neck, and there was a combined fear and frustration playing out in the way his lips trembled.

"Take. Me. To. A. Different. Motel," Castiel said through clenched teeth, as if speech pained him. "Do _not_ tell Dean."

Sam would have remained in surprised silence a moment longer had not Castiel started a harsh fit of coughing that wracked his thin frame and sent shudders through the Impala.

"Hey, hey—" Sam began, placing a hand on Castiel's shoulder. Luckily, the man didn't slink away, and Sam fished for a bottle of water in the back. He opened it quickly, and Cas took it, though still coughing, steadying his hands so as not to spill it. He drank deeply from the bottle then handed it back to Sam. The younger Winchester's heart had started to beat a bit faster during the attack, then Castiel leaned his head back in his seat in exhaustion, eyes closing.

"Okay," Sam said through an exhale, more to himself than to Cas. "Let's get you to a motel."


	2. Digging Up The Heart

**The Desired Effect**

 **Chapter 2: Digging Up The Heart**

The place was dirt cheap, a one-floor Bates Motel affair, but Sam had insisted on paying, although Castiel tried to force a few hundred dollars into his hands. Sam got a room, while Cas waited in the car, then pulled around to Number 4.

Castiel reached for his things in the back, but Sam stopped him: "I got this." And Cas relented, pushing himself out of the passenger seat to a standing position. Sam maintained a calm demeanor, but he kept his eyes on Cas the entire time, watching for any sign of weakness or instability in case he had to break a fall if the angel took a dive. And, simultaneously, Sam couldn't help running Castiel's pre-coughing fit rant through his mind. What did he mean when Cas said Dean couldn't know about what they were doing? Had something happened between them, something Dean hadn't told him? He hoped Cas would bring it up sooner rather than later.

At the moment, Sam was just trying to make sure the former angel remained upright. Castiel listed slightly on his way to the door then paused to turn a key before stepping inside. Still dripping wet, Cas waited at the entrance, as if afraid to mar the space with his soaked-in-blue-goo clothes. Sam had to push past him with his gear and gun, ("It's yours to keep for protection," he had told Cas) dropping them on the floor before systematically going around the room to turn on the lights. It was so familiar a setting that Sam sighed with nostalgia, like he was coming home again. How strange to feel more at ease in a motel room than anywhere else, even the bunker.

Sam ran a hand through his hair as he ticked off the basic perks out loud. "Remote and T.V., ice bucket, water cups, mini fridge, alarm clock, table." Not bad for a dingy little place; Sam had to approve.

That's when he realized how quiet Cas had gotten. Sam whipped his head around to find the other man staring around the room wide-eyed.

"Y'all right?" Sam probed.

"Sam, thank you!" Castiel croaked, a sudden smile breaking across his lips. "This is…incredible!"

The younger Winchester was surprised, then he realized that the room must look incredible for someone who had been used to sleeping on the floor of a break room for the last few months.

Castiel started forward and hovered tentatively above one of the beds, peering at it as if it was a deep pool he didn't want to accidentally fall into.

"Go on," encouraged Sam. "It's yours to enjoy."

The ex-angel gingerly sat down on the bed, bouncing on it slightly and beaming at the motion. Sam was suddenly reminded of a three year-old's joy.

Then Cas did the familiar head-tilt of curiosity. "Are you staying here?" And he indicated the other twin bed across from him.

Sam contemplated the question. Originally, he had requested two beds so that if he needed to monitor Cas over night, he could, but even if the dude didn't need a nursemaid, Sam relished the thought of spending a little time away from Dean. The guy had been so clingy lately, and he'd given new meaning to the word "overprotective." Dean was usually the stereotypical big brother, but in the past few months he had begun pressing Sam's patience. As a thirty-one year old man, Sam could take care of himself.

"Yeah, I'm gonna stay with you for a while."

 _Good luck trying to explain your going away to Dean mid-hunt…_

"Oh, Sam!" Castiel huffed out. "Thank you!" He attempted to stand, but his legs didn't see to work properly, and he began to falter. Sam was easing him back onto the bed before Castiel could help himself.

"Easy, easy," Sam muttered, studying Castiel's gaunt face and trembling body. "When was the last time you ate?"

Cas swallowed and licked his lips, probably pondering whether to tell the truth or not. Sam was too anxious about his health to let him continue debating what to say.

"More than a day?" Sam asked.

Castiel's eyes flittered to his, glowing faintly in the dim light of the room, then he nodded.

Sam sighed and rolled his eyes, walking swiftly to grab a cup of water. "You have money to buy food, Cas. What gives?"

"Hurts," Cas grunted, taking the water gratefully and slowly sipping it.

"Your throat?" Sam asked, producing a protein bar from his jacket. He had been planning on eating it himself in lieu of breakfast, but the skeleton in front of him clearly needed it more.

Castiel whispered, "Yes," and then took the protein bar reluctantly.

Sam sat on the bed opposite him. "Go ahead."

"I…I don't deserve—"

"Stop," Sam said. "Stop right there, Cas. Eat first. You'll find it easier to self-deprecate on a full stomach."

Cas peeled the wrapper off and ate with tender bites, as if he was savoring each mouthful. And Sam guessed he probably was.

"Oh…chocolate!" Cas exclaimed. "I like chocolate."

"Great, Cas," Sam said and couldn't help but smile. There were times when the mighty ex-angel had all the cuteness of a baby sloth. While Cas nibbled on the snack, Sam ran the back of his right hand over his friend's forehead. Elevated temperature.

"How long have you been sick?"

Castiel paused a moment, munching thoughtfully. "A month…more."

Sam winced. It was likely Cas had a bad bug of some kind, perhaps a sinus infection.

At that, the former angel bent over as another coughing attack overtook him. Sam leaned forward, bracing Castiel's shoulders so he wouldn't topple. Each cough was louder and wetter, and seemed to last forever, until they finally subsided. Castiel shuddered, rocking back on the bed, his face now flushed and eyes watering with pain. Sam placed the cup of water back in his hands, and Cas drank gratefully.

"Do you think you'll be okay on your own for half an hour?"

Cas nodded, rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes in such a way that made Sam sigh inwardly with fondness.

"I'm going to get you some food, extra clothes, and antibiotics. I think you have an infection. Do you have other clothes to change into?"

Another nod.

"Okay." Sam stood up. "Take a shower so you don't get cold, and I'll be right back to stay with you. Is there anything you want from the store?"

Castiel opened his mouth to talk, but all that came out was a gasp. Concern, mixed with panic, flashed across his face. It clearly read: _Help._

"Did you lose your voice?" Sam asked, instantly leaning over. "That can happen sometimes when you're sick. Don't worry; it'll come back."

Castiel's nervous eyes eventually closed, and he nodded.

"Here," said Sam, and he brought a pad of paper and a pen over to Cas. "Write a list of anything you want."

Castiel jotted a few things down then slowly stood up, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder, gratitude clear on his face. Cas walked into the bathroom, and Sam heard the sound of streaming water. He glanced down at the list and suppressed a laugh.

· Yogurt in a tube

· Maple donuts

· Whiskey

· Blueberries

Sam tucked the list in his jacket pocket and made sure the door to Castiel's room was locked then headed to the Impala. Just as he opened the driver door, his cell phone rang. The younger Winchester found himself having to make a difficult decision sooner than he would have liked: tell Dean what was going on, or honor Castiel's wishes. Sam groaned with dissatisfaction; he was tired of keeping secrets.

* * *

Dean Winchester was only slightly aware of the coldness of his toes until he rolled over in bed and realized that there was no blanket covering him. Waking with a start, he peered sleepily around the dark room, feeling for covers in a heap on the floor. Figures. He had been dreaming about fire and black eyes again and had probably gotten too hot. Ironically, inferno-nightmares often led to his toes becoming small ice cubes.

 _Gonna have to start wearing slipper socks to bed,_ he thought. _Like a little kid._

Dean was perfectly content with going back to bed, but when he finally dragged the covers back and wrapped them around himself, the red glowing numbers of the motel alarm clock had begun to cast an unhealthy pall over the claustrophic space, and no amount of fuzzy blankets were going to lull him back to sleep.

Hell was never very enticing anyway.

Dean glanced over at the clock again. Almost 7:00 AM. Sam would probably be up already, and, maybe, if Dean asked really nicely, they'd microwave some tasty breakfast together: French toast. With extra bacon.

So the older Winchester rolled out of bed, his back cracking and popping in ways both pleasant and cringe-inducing. He missed the bunker, with his own room and a memory foam mattress that _always_ remembered him. Dean staggered upright and began moving blindly toward the bathroom. He grabbed a white undershirt from a chair at the dining table as he got up, putting it on swiftly.

The carpeted floor of the motel room was fuzzy and frigid, emanating a stale musty smell. When he reached the empty bathroom, Dean turned around, taking in the darkened room that was conspicuously missing one Sasquatch. He observed the rumpled covers on Sam's bad, tossed aside carelessly.

"Sam?" called Dean lazily, not really expecting an answer, his voice hoarse after a long night chasing leads on the ghouls currently infecting Idaho Falls. When was the last time had had a solid night's sleep? It seemed like they had been on continuous cases for the past month. And every day Dean hoped would be the day that Ezekiel would tell him he could go and Sam was free.

Dean sighed, scratching the back of his neck. He hated lying to Sam, but it was the only way to save him. And once he was better, Sam wouldn't mind what lengths Dean had gone to… Would he?

"Sam, where did you go?" Dean mumbled to himself, stepping towards the windows to look outside. He wasn't going to panic yet. His brother had probably left a note. Sure enough, a scrap of paper rested on the table. Dean opened the curtains to let some light in and realized that he had been holding his breath. He subsequently took a gulp of air and willed his heartbeat to slow to an even pace. _Damn that kid for making me worry about him everywhere he goes._

Satisfied after reading the note, Dean began looking forward to a glorious breakfast feast. In anticipation, he scavenged the mini fridge and cupboards for ingredients—syrup, a container of fresh strawberries, orange juice, frozen French toast. But it seemed they were missing something—something essential.

Dean's heart flip-flopped when he realized what it was.

Bacon.

The older Winchester then spent the next three minutes trying to figure out if Sammy would have _noticed_ they were out of bacon and automatically picked it up, or if it was something he needed to _remind_ Sam to buy. The odds were Sam would have noticed, but then again Sam didn't eat bacon very often…

Dean decided the situation warranted a phone call reminder. Just to be safe. Wouldn't want to ruin a _nearly_ perfect breakfast. No, the bacon _had_ to be bought.

Sam answered on the second ring, and Dean hoped he hadn't left the store yet. Dean was about to murmur a sleepy, "G'morning," when the line practically exploded with sound.

"Dean, what the _hell_ is going on between you and Cas? I mean—I thought _he_ left _us_ to go battle the angels, or whatever, and now I learn that he's working at a convenience store and practically _homeless_ and made me _promise_ I wouldn't tell you what's going on—"

"Woah woah woah!" Dean exclaimed into his phone, having brought it almost a foot away from his ear for the volume to reach a comfortable level. Immediately, at the mention of the former angel's name, Dean's heart began to hammer in his chest. "Tell me what's going on."

And as Sam related the events of the past hour—frantic phone call, figure in the rain, low fever, infection, motel room, _don't tell Dean—_ the older Winchester's palms turned sweaty, his stomach rolling.

 _So much for the bacon._

Dean ran a hand across his forehead.

"Just hold on, Sam…"

He was stalling, and Sam probably sensed it. But Sam and Cas were together—which meant _Ezekiel_ and Cas were together—exactly what he had tried to avoid for the past few months until Sam fully healed. Unbeknownst to Sam. And Cas.

Dean's heart fluttered. The poor guy was just as in the dark as Sam was. Dean hadn't been able to turn on the TV or order a pizza without thinking of his best friend—the one he had so cruelly and curtly tossed aside in favor of his brother's well being. Having to stare into those newly human eyes after having pulled Castiel from the jaws of death… Knowing Cas had no friends besides them, nowhere to turn… Dean was the king of making dick moves, but this had to be one of the sourest he had ever made.

Dean supposed that he had convinced himself at the time that Castiel would do okay, that he would use his quirky charm and child-like innocence to get by. But who was he kidding? Dean had been astounded when Sam mentioned that Cas had a job. He was less surprised that the ex-angel was homeless.

"Dean?"

The older Winchester was jarred from his scattered thoughts by the obvious change in Sam's tone—the authoritative bite it exuded could only be Ezekiel.

Dean wasn't sure anyone else would be less fun to talk to at that moment. Maybe Crowley. Maybe…

"Zeke?" Dean said, just to piss the angel off.

And, indeed the voice that responded was fuming. "You will remove Castiel from this situation."

Dean sat down hard next to the dining table. A headache was already starting to form—a slow throbbing behind his left temple. "What do you want me to do? You sound like a mob boss who wants to whack a guy." And, for a brief terrifying moment, Dean wondered if that's exactly what Ezekiel meant. He could picture the angel in Sam's body walking back to Castiel's motel room, opening the door to the bathroom…

The shower scene from _Psycho_ was playing out in the hunter's mind, and Dean promptly leapt from his seat. "Listen—you are _not_ to touch him. Do you hear me? I'll take care of this."

The voice that responded sounded less than convinced. "You seem to have very little regard for your brother's well-being for someone who wanted to save him in the first place. Castiel brings chaos and conflict wherever he goes. How long will your brother be safe?"

Dean wanted to ask Ezekiel how he thought Cas had been able to quietly work at a Gas-N-Sip for the past two months without being detected if he was a walking angel magnet, but he bit his tongue.

"I'll get over there and talk to him. I'll check him out…and I'll keep Sam out of it."

"And…?"

Dean swallowed back a bitter taste in his mouth. "And I'll explain why we can't stay."

A brisk reply: "I will give you until tomorrow morning."

 _Yeah, that'll be plenty of time to invent new lies for Cas_ and _Sam_ and _cure a sick ex-angel._

"Dean?"

It was Sam again. Dean pressed a hand to his forehead as if he could massage the incoming migraine out of his skull.

"Listen up, Sammy. I didn't know about Cas." Well, that was partially true at least. "I wouldn't have let him go off on his own if I'd known he was in dire straits."

A pause on the other end. His brother was obviously expecting more to his response, but Dean hadn't thought that far ahead yet.

 _Just give me time. Sweet Jesus, give me time._

"You know, I didn't have to tell you about this," said Sam, his voice getting higher-pitched, a clear sign that he was angry. "I wasn't going to tell you until I realized that Cas might need help from both of us to get better. I'm aware that I broke his trust, but I felt you had a right to know about what's going on. Because I know you hate secrets."

"I appreciate that, Sam… Keepin' me in the loop…Thanks."

 _Thanks for making me feel even more like an asshat._

But Sam didn't relent. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Ignoring the question, Dean diverted. "Go ahead and grab some extra clothes for Cas. Our stuff probably won't fit him. And get some food too. I'll bring the medicine and check on Cas while you're gone."

Another pause. Sam could be damn aggravating when he wanted to be.

"We're not done talking about this, Dean."

The older Winchester could feel the veins pulsing in his forehead. If he could have reached through the phone and smacked his little brother, he would have.

"Over and out… And Sammy?"

A very audible sigh. "What?"

"Bring me some French toast. With extra bacon."

If this was the way his Monday morning was starting, at least Dean was going to get what he wanted for breakfast.

* * *

Castiel let the warm water from the motel shower wash over him, its steam breaking through his plugged up sinuses and soothing his achy limbs.

He moved slowly through each step of the process—from washing his hair to brushing his teeth again—with purposeful joy. He had nowhere to be, no task to complete, no customer to placate. It was just him. And Sam. Sam would be back soon and would take care of him.

As Castiel began to dress in his extra work outfit, identical to the previous one, he tested out his voice. It had been extremely alarming when it gave out while speaking with Sam. Now he tried to clear it and say a few words, but all that came out were weak puffs of air and a gargling growl from the back of his throat. He sipped from the cup of water Sam got him and hoped that his voice, like the younger Winchester had insisted, would return soon.

A sudden lethargy swept over him, perhaps an effect of the warm water that had soothed his vessel, but it was more likely that the little to no sleep he had obtained over the past few weeks was beginning to catch up with him. Castiel sat tentatively on the edge of the bed closest to the bathroom, still hesitant to touch it lest he wrinkle the smoothness of the comforter. But he was clean now, and this room was his (albeit temporarily) to use and get some rest. Isn't that what Sam had told him to do?

So Castiel scooted closer to the pillows propped up along the headboard and prepared to close his eyes… when he heard a strange sound.

Immediately, his senses were on guard. Even if they were weakened and human, he could still detect something at the door. Castiel silently chided himself for not insisting that Sam put protective sigils on the door. Could it be that one of his vengeful sisters or brothers was onto him?

But there was something… different about the scratching noises that gave Castiel pause, something definitely not human about them, but not angelic either.

He got up from the bed cautiously, glad that his bare feet made no sound on the plush carpeted floor. His ears were tuned to the frantic scuffling sounds coming from behind his door. Castiel was prepared to defend himself, and although he didn't know as much as Sam did about guns, he briskly picked up the Winchester's rifle.

Wavering slightly with fear, Castiel held the gun with both hands until he was standing directly in front of the door.

He merely mouthed the words, not even a whisper escaping his lips: "Who… Who is it?"

There was more skittish scratching and then a high-pitched whine. Castiel couldn't contain his curiosity any longer and pulled the door open with a flourish.

There, standing all of half a foot tall was a very small, slightly soggy, dog. It had curly white and chocolate fur, and it whined again when Castiel opened the door, its big brown eyes almost brimming over with longing. Immediately, its nose bumped into Castiel's legs, sniffing his black pants amiably.

Castiel was puzzled. He set the rifle back down on the table by the door and just stood in place, staring down at the little creature. Outside, the chill of April swirled, obliterating any temporary warmth left by the sun, and overhead, dark clouds began to cover the cobalt sky.

The former angel bent down and placed his hands on the dog to stop its frantic movements. However, as soon as the little thing spotted Castiel's hand, it reached up with an open mouth. Castiel flinched, prepared for the dog to bite him, but instead he found his hand greeted by a warm, wet, and leathery pink tongue. The dog licked him several times until it seemed satisfied, then Castiel stroked the top of the dog's head.

Castiel sniffed, coughing harshly into his elbow and looked quickly around the motel parking lot. Sam had told him to stay put. Those had been his instructions, and yet this little creature was clearly lost, in distress, and needed help. Castiel had actually wondered if animals sensed that he was not originally a human. And although he couldn't communicate with animals, Castiel had a special affinity for anything fuzzy and helpless. He couldn't just shut his door and ignore the dog.

It rapidly shook its head, water droplets flicking left and right, and Castiel heard the unmistakable tinkling of metal. He reached down and gently felt for the collar—finding a tag that read "Bilbo," followed by an address from Nebraska.

Even through his sleep-deprived and foggy sinus infection brain, Castiel deduced that this furry companion must have wandered off from where his owners were staying on vacation. All he'd need to do would be to find a car with a Nebraska license plate and look for the adjacent room. Castiel once again searched the parking lot for any suspicious figures, but it was silent. In that moment, he made his decision.

Castiel took the motel key from the table and slipped it into his pants pocket, then closed the door firmly, double-checking that it was locked. Beneath him, the little beast whined and pawed at his leg, as if questioning his course of action. Castiel swiftly picked the creature up and stared directly into its eyes, concentrating his mind to transmit a message the way he used to.

 _Come on, Bilbo. We're going to find your family._

The dog licked his hand as he held it, nuzzling against his chest, but whether Bilbo had received his telepathic thoughts, Castiel would never be able to know. He paused after the first few brisk paces through the parking lot left him dizzy, and he nearly tripped over a patch of demolished concrete cordoned off by orange cones. But he continued, Bilbo's small doggy heart beating firmly against his upper body, as if confident that Castiel could help him. If only the dog knew that he felt as lost as it probably did.

Castiel coughed again, trying not to scare the pet. He thought, fleetingly: _Perhaps I should have waited for Sam to return._

But Castiel kept walking, Bilbo under his arm.

And then it began to rain again.

 **To be continued…**

 **A/N:** Cas just can't NOT help the poor doggy! Next chapter features Dean and Cas reuniting (oh, the angst, the feels). Thanks so much for all the reviews, favs, and follows! Feedback is always appreciated. Hope you enjoyed! (And Happy Birthday, Misha!)


	3. Never Get You Right

**The Desired Effect**

 **Chapter 3: Never Get You Right**

Castiel took refuge with Bilbo under the awning of the adjacent row of hotel rooms, walking past the gamut of cars, checking each license plate meticulously. He must have gone past at least fifteen rooms before spotting the motor home with the Nebraska plate. Just in passing, Castiel noticed that one of its windows was wide open.

Shaking water droplets from his still-wet-from-the-shower hair, Castiel knocked briskly on the door directly across from the motor home, clearing his throat frantically. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn't even utter a squeak. Bilbo cocked his head and looked up at Castiel in canine confusion.

The door opened soon after to a plump middle-aged lady with curly brown hair and wearing a large Mickey Mouse sweater. Her mouth pursed in a thin line, sharp eyes blinking, perplexed.

Castiel was afraid this was going to happen. Lack of communication always ended in tragedy as far as humans were concerned. And angels, too, come to think of it. Castiel silently prayed, for the first time in a _long_ time, that this day that had started out so terribly might have a happy ending.

Luckily, it was difficult _not_ to see what Castiel was holding in his hands, and the lady immediately cried out, "Bilbo!" before scooping the tiny creature into her pink arms. Bilbo yipped excitedly in response, licking her face with a sloppy tongue.

"How did you get out of the motor home?"

Castiel was about to respond, but only a gasping wheeze came out. The lady immediately shifted her attention to him, green eyes softening as she stroked Bilbo's head.

"Thank you for bringing him back! Where did ya find him?"

Castiel attempted to clear his throat, but it was no use. He could feel color rushing to his cheeks, embarrassment causing another thrill of dizziness to wash over him. In desperation, he tapped at his throat with two fingers and shook his head.

"Oh—" the lady uttered, realization eventually kicking in. "So sorry—I didn't know you can't talk!" Then Bilbo licked her hand again, and she laughed heartily, a high-pitched musical ring that was not unpleasant.

"Bilbo usually doesn't trust strangers, but you must be a good man, or he wouldn't have sought you out. My name's Susan." She reached out a hand, and Castiel offered his, cold and clammy. She didn't so much as shake it as give it a warm squeeze.

"My—you're cold! Want some coffee?"

Castiel shook his head emphatically. Even the mere _thought_ of coffee made his tongue ache.

"Then a treat," Susan said quickly and whipped around before he could protest. Her room was exactly the same as his own, except that there was a single larger bed in the center, and the walls were painted a faded emerald, not brown.

Castiel stood awkwardly in the door, cognizant of the flecks of water still dripping from his clothes. A few moments later, Susan placed Bilbo on the floor and took something out of the mini fridge. She dug into with a fork and placed a mound of it onto a napkin. Then she whisked back to the door, Bilbo following her around obediently.

With a beaming grin, she took Castiel's hand and placed the napkin in his palm. He looked down at his payment with wide eyes.

"Apple pie always was my favorite. I tend to eat it for breakfast when I'm on vacation. And anyone who ever tells you that you can't eat pie for breakfast is missing out. Thank you again!"

Castiel attempted to smile, bobbing his head in appreciation and stepping away from the entrance. Bilbo yipped again, as if to echo his owner's gratitude, and then Susan closed the door.

He stared down at the slice of pie in his hands like it was alive, and a combination of nausea and hopelessness washed over him. Why this aversion to a dish that had once reminded him of the best friend he ever had? Why was it that he compulsively distanced himself from anything that was even vaguely reminiscent of Dean? When Sam had pulled up in the Impala that morning, Castiel had almost turned and run away. Because what would have happened if it _had_ been Dean? Just sitting in the car had caused waves of panic and sorrow to pump through his veins. Because Dean was angry at him—more than angry. Dean had abandoned him because Castiel was a burden and had betrayed him and Sam so many times that they couldn't rely on him anymore.

A dog could trust him but not Dean Winchester.

Castiel's next instinct was to throw the pie away, either on the ground, or in a trashcan, but then his stomach began rumbling in protest, and he would feel ungrateful if he didn't accept Susan's gift for helping Bilbo.

So he kept the pie, holding it in the same hand, and walking slowly back to his room. As he walked, the sun began to come out again behind thick clouds, dazzling his vision and reflecting off the shine of an older tan-colored car that just pulled into the parking lot in front of his room.

Castiel didn't take much notice of the vehicle until someone got out of it—someone wearing a faded leather jacket, short light brown hair, and an expression altogether placid and pissed off.

"Cas?" Dean called.

It was at that moment that Castiel failed to notice the orange cones that he had nearly tripped over before and this time tripped over them, scraping his knees and one hand against concrete as he fell face-first into a yawning mud puddle.

"Cas!" He heard Dean's muffled cry.

The angel-turned-human hit his nose hard, and he gasped, his face partially under water as he struggled to get to his knees.

Then he felt strong hands righting him, and he looked up blearily at the older Winchester, Dean's usually stoic face now twisted with concern. Castiel tried to move further, but his head was spinning, and he felt the warm gush of blood stemming from his nose.

"Cas—you okay?" Dean asked gruffly, his hand bunched around the angel's shirt collar, which, along with all of his once-clean clothes, was now covered in mud.

The former angel looked down, expecting to find the piece of pie Susan had given him in a smear of apple and crumbs floating in the muck, but he was extremely shocked to find that the pie had _not_ been destroyed. In fact, it still rested in the palm of his hand, unscathed.

"Talk to me, man," Dean said. Always so persistant, so demanding. How was Castiel supposed to talk when his voice had disappeared?

In answer to Dean's question, Castiel tugged on Dean's arm, signaling that he wanted to stand, and with some moderate help, he was doing just that. Wavering slightly, Castiel contemplated what further catastrophes this day had in store for him. Had he not reached his quota of downers for one bad day? On the other hand, the day hadn't been a total failure.

He had rescued Bilbo.

"Cas, that fall was totally epic. I wish I had gotten it on film." Dean's face lit up in amusement, the corners of his eyes crinkling, teeth gleaming white. "I mean, you were like a dancer when you fell. And I didn't know what was in your hand until I got closer, but _wow_ , man. You really went the distance to save that pie. It makes me proud."

Castiel frowned. _Are we back to the platonic buddies, the I'm-Your-Sidekick routine? So soon?_ He couldn't handle it. Castiel felt as if a weight was pressing on his chest. Sam had betrayed him. He had tried so hard not to even think of Dean Winchester for the past few months, and now they were together again…

With a sniff, he dumped the slice of pie in Dean's hands unceremoniously then limped away.

* * *

Dean Winchester had been impressed by Castiel saving the pastry during his graceless swan dive, but he was more worried than anything. Cas was quiet. Too quiet. And he was covered in sludge and blood.

The poor guy looked like he had been through a lot, and Dean was reminded of the time he and Sam had found Cas after the reaper killed him, the sight of his thin visage and gore-streaked body. It was a body that told the story of abuse and hunger and homelessness.

And it had happened all over again for Cas.

 _Whose fault is that?_ Dean sighed the thought away and jogged to keep up with Castiel, who was almost all the way back to his motel room. When Cas faltered slightly, Dean was instantly at his side, bracing the ex-angel's arm to lean him against a support beam under the motel's awning.

"Hold up," Dean muttered. "Did you hit your head?"

Cas sighed and indicated his nose, dripping blood.

Without permission, Dean brought a hand up to examine Castiel's skull, but the smaller man swatted it away.

That stopped Dean short and also pressed his anger button. "Help me out a little, Cas. You look like crap."

Castiel rolled his eyes but would still not face Dean directly.

"I brought antibiotics," said the older Winchester. "Sam told me about what happened."

Castiel's eyes immediately shone bright with anger. Dean counted the expression as a win. At least Cas was looking at him.

 _Now if I could just get him to talk._

"Don't blame Sam. He's just worried about you and thought I could help too. Why didn't you call me?"

Nothing. Just his fuming gaze.

Dean began to panic. "Cas—it's me. Why won't you talk to me?"

And then—a sudden burst of movement. Dean braced himself for a fight, but Castiel was merely pointing to his throat, shaking his head, and making an "incomplete" gesture with his hands, crossing them together and sweeping them outwards.

 _Oh._ Dean felt like an idiot. _Cas is sick, remember?_

"You lost your voice."

Castiel smacked his forehead sarcastically, such an out of character response that Dean temporarily forgot his guilt and remembered how much Castiel made him laugh, how much he had missed the angel.

"My bad. Let's get you inside."

But, however much Dean tried to help him, Castiel brushed him off, taking a key from his pocket and letting them inside. The place was cheap, but clean, and Dean had seen worse. At least it didn't smell.

Dean set the preserved slice of pie on the table near the door and watched as Castiel sat down stiffly in a chair beside it, putting a sleeve up to try and staunch the flow of blood pouring from his nose. Dean winced. Good thing Sam was bringing new clothes. Castiel's shirt was already stained with blood, and his pants were thoroughly covered in mire and ripped through the knees.

"Here—let me help you with that," Dean said, fetching a box of Kleenex and a washcloth soaked in warm water.

Dean pulled up a chair beside Castiel, but the angel flicked his hand away. Silent, Dean tried again. This time, Castiel nearly shoved Dean out of his seat, but the hunter was stronger and held his ground, dodging every smack and scrape of the angel's fingers.

"C'mon, Cas!"

Castiel wriggled in his seat like a small child, his mouth twisted into a grimace. And then he stopped suddenly. Dean ceased moving too, poised for another attack, and then the coughing started up.

The attack lasted about five minutes, but it sounded like Cas was working at getting rid of a lung. Each cough sounded harsher and more painful than the next until he practically collapsed forward, and Dean caught him, pressing the former angel back against his seat, placing a cup of water in his hands.

"Hey, hey, it's all right," the older Winchester soothed, bringing the washcloth up to wipe away the blood and snot and grime from Castiel's face. The coughing attack must have drained his already waning energy, because Cas was done with fighting off his advances; his limbs hung limply as Dean ministered to him.

After a while, Castiel opened his eyes and choked out a gravelly, yet audible, "Thank you."

"There's the voice!" Dean exclaimed cheerfully, and his eyes flicked over at the angel's face in encouragement, but Castiel quickly avoided his gaze, and didn't that just ratchet up Dean's guilt-o-meter another few notches?

They sat in silence for a while. The bleeding from Castiel's nose had mercifully stopped, and it wasn't broken as far as Dean could tell. After the blood was washed away from his face, Dean opened the medical kit Sam had left near the table and began rubbing antibacterial ointment on Castiel's scraped and raw knees, placing large Band-Aids on each. As he worked, Dean tried to stir up conversation.

"So, knowing that Sam probably told you to stay put, is there a good reason you left this room? And don't tell me you were craving pie, because that's _my_ fix."

He tried to ignore the way Castiel bowed his head, dejected. He tried to ignore the frustration and exhausted hopelessness in his voice as he jabbered a shivery response.

"Dog in rain…lost…motor home…took Bilbo back…Susan gave me pie."

Dean paused, cocking his head. "And what does _The Hobbit_ have to do with this again?"

Castiel moaned, his hands feigning ignorance.

"All right, all right. I'm only joking, Cas. You used to be able to figure out when I was teasing you."

Castiel didn't reply with a gruff admittance. In fact, he didn't reply at all.

 _You are in deep shit,_ Dean told himself. _Patch things up with Cas before you bail on him again. You gotta make him understand why you did it without actually telling him the truth._

But Dean was more preoccupied with Castiel getting better first. Sinus infections were nasty and could be a royal pain if left untreated.

"Got some antibiotics for you, Cas. You just can't take 'em on an empty stomach. So if you could eat the pie—"

Dean hardly had to say the word "eat" before Castiel had picked the slice off the napkin and inhaled it in two bites. Castiel then wiped his mouth daintily with a napkin.

The older Winchester chuckled and fished for the small bottle of pills in his pocket. "Okay. Two of these, twice a day. We'll start your first dose now, then one later tonight."

Castiel nodded obediently and swallowed the pills with a cup of water Dean brought him from before, setting the glass down, his frame beginning to shake. Cas made a move to get up, but Dean blocked his way.

"One sec," the hunter said and put a hand up to Castiel's face. He disregarded how the angel flinched at his touch when he smeared a bit of ointment on the razor knick on his cheek and placed a small waterproof Band-Aid over the hurt. The silence between them was audible in the room, a vacuum of distrust, until Castiel's teeth began chattering.

"You should take a quick shower," Dean said. "Not too hot—you have a low fever."

Castiel answered him with a glare, walked to the bathroom, and shut the door.

Soon, Dean heard the sound of running water. He rubbed his eyes with his index finger and tried to keep it together. Pretty soon Sam would be coming back and demand an explanation for why the sick angel now had an almost broken nose and various other scrapes. And Ezekiel would demand that he settle his issue with Castiel and part ways immediately.

The angel possessing Sam's body didn't know how complex this situation was; Dean had been climbing a mountain of guilt since he woke up that morning, and he needed to find closure with Cas before abandoning him again.

Dean wasn't even sure if he could _do_ that anyway, but first thing was first. He had a friend who needed help, and he was going to help him get better if it was the last thing he did.

Castiel stepped out of the bathroom ten minutes later wearing a white bath towel cinched around his waist; he was fidgeting, near tears in his eyes.

The older Winchester felt his blood run cold.

"Itches," was all the angel could croak out.

Dean cursed as he stepped forward. A red splotchy rash covered Castiel's entire body.

* * *

Sam's mind was racing with questions by the time he got back to the motel with the Impala. Hadn't Dean said that Castiel left of his own accord? If that was the case, why couldn't the angel-turned-human mention his brother's name, or even hear Dean's name, without casting his eyes downwards?

Something had happened, and Sam was determined to get to the bottom of it eventually.

He closed the driver's side door and swung around to the passenger seat, stooping over to pick up a couple bags of groceries and a bag of clothes he had purchased at Goodwill. He had simply guessed when it came to Castiel's sizes, and Sam hoped that the couple extra pairs of pants would fit. Seeing Dean's carjacked beige Lincoln made him relieved and worried at the same time, relief that Castiel would have received antibiotics by now, and worry that the two would be in the same room with each other.

Sam opened the door expecting the worst.

His prediction was just about right.

Castiel stood eerily still in the middle of the room between the two beds. A white towel was wrapped around his middle, and the bathroom light and obligatory fan were still on. But there was something _wrong_ about Castiel's appearance. His skin was extremely pink, as if he had taken a searing-hot shower. But that wasn't it.

Sam stepped closer to get a better look and realized, in horror, that Castiel had a severe rash that appeared to cover his entire body.

Castiel met Sam's eyes, then his gaze lowered, as if he was all too aware of Sam inspecting him, and he was ashamed.

"Hello, Sam," Cas muttered and reached down to scratch the inside of one of his thighs.

Well, at least his voice had returned.

Meanwhile, Sam heard a frantic shuffling in the corner of the room by the table. He looked to his right to find Dean on his hands and knees, ransacking Sam's medical kit and a second bag full of medicines that Dean had brought from their own motel room.

"Dean."

It was a statement, not a greeting. In one word, Sam had sent Dean the telepathic sibling equivalent of: "Please tell me what's going on here, because it seems like you've _really_ messed up."

Dean caught the gist of Sam's comment without fail.

"Bad reaction to medicine, Sammy." Sam didn't mind the little-kid nickname; Dean had entered full-on big brother mode, after all. "Did you give him anything before I got here?"

Sam shook his head. "Cas?"

Cas mimicked the gesture, twitching slightly, his fingers extended like a gunslinger in a Wild West movie, about to reach for his .45. Sam couldn't interpret the strange movement until he realized that Castiel was in an epic struggle with himself to not scratch.

Dean had probably told him to stay still while he went Keith Moon on the place to find the allergy medicine.

Meanwhile, Sam dropped his sacks on the floor and went to the table to assist his big brother. He immediately spotted the vial of antibiotics Dean had most likely administered to Cas. He picked it up and examined the label. It was the type of antibiotics they regularly kept in stock for emergencies—their go-to stuff.

"Looks like Cas is allergic to sulfa." As soon as Sam said it, he knew how common allergies to specific antibiotics were.

"No shit, Sherlock," Dean said, not in a pissy way, but rather off hand. It was clear that he was focusing on fixing his situation fast. Then, abruptly, he stopped and whipped his head around.

"What did I tell you about _not_ scratching?" he barked at Cas.

The poor angel merely froze in place and bit his lip, looking absolutely more miserable than he had before Sam had left him, which was hard to imagine considering how well Cas had been playing the nearly-drowned puppy role.

"Ah ha!" Dean exclaimed and stood up, displaying a small pill bottle and a tube of anti-itch cream.

Then, more gently than before, he approached Cas and explained what to do with the cream. Afterwards, Dean turned to his brother. "You got extra clothes?"

Sam instantly rummaged through the clothing sack, bringing out a t-shirt, sweat pants, underwear, and thick socks. He didn't ask what had happened to Castiel's other change of clothes.

Castiel took the clothing from Sam silently and disappeared back into the bathroom. Sam couldn't help but notice the way Castiel never looked at Dean the whole time he had talked to him.

 _Yeah._ Something's _going on here._

"Why don't you go back to our motel?" Dean said, out of the blue. "See if you can pick up any more leads on these ghouls in the area. Or you could drive back to the bunker…Do some more angel research maybe. Help Kevin. God knows that kid needs as much help as he can get."

That was true, but Sam sensed an underlying motive Dean was not sharing with him, and Sam wasn't going to leave just yet.

"Cas is my friend too, Dean. And I think he needs more help right now than Kevin."

Dean nodded, as if Sam's reply didn't surprise him. He paused, then: "I could have killed him."

Sam glanced at Dean in mild shock. Because whether Dean had touched on the much bigger (and yet unknown) issue here, Sam thought that his brother had struck a chord of truth. Whatever Cas and Dean's problem was, it had to do with Dean's guilt. Big surprise there.

"You didn't know better. He didn't know either. He's only been human a couple months, and we don't have access to Jimmy Novak's health records."

Dean remained silent, shoulders slumped. Sam walked over and put a hand on his arm.

"You tried to help him. You tried your best."

With that, Sam began going through the grocery sacks, taking out the items he bought to make sandwiches—turkey lunchmeat, Dean's favorite brand of bacon, cheddar cheese slices, mayo, and whole wheat bread. Along with the sandwich materials, Sam set out a small veggie tray, a bag of frozen blueberries, raspberry flavored yogurt (in a tube), and three maple bars.

After Sam finished, Dean eyed the spread with a mixture of desire and bafflement.

Sam shrugged. "Castiel's requests." He showed Dean the bottle of Jack Daniels before he tucked it away in a bag, and Dean gave him a small thumbs-up in approval.

"That's my boy."

A minute later, Castiel stepped out of the bathroom, draped in Sam's too-big second hand purchases, his enflamed skin shiny with the cortisone cream he had rubbed over his entire body. Even though his clothes were soft and baggy, they stuck to him, which made his usually deferential gait even more self-conscious.

But he perked up a bit when he saw the food. Sitting down, Sam gestured to the sandwich on a paper plate next to him. Castiel didn't need further encouragement. He immediately sat down next to Sam and took a large bite out of the turkey sandwich, moaning with pleasure. He swallowed it slowly, grimacing, and Sam felt himself wince too. Sore throats were certainly no picnic.

Castiel paused slightly, then frowned. Dean sat down on his other side. "What's wrong, Cas?"

The ex-angel answered his question but spoke to Sam instead. Another awkward moment. Why wouldn't Cas acknowledge his older brother?

"This doesn't taste… good. I burnt my tongue earlier today…Will my food always taste horrible?" Cas looked up at Sam with some of the saddest eyes he'd ever seen.

"No, don't worry," Sam replied. "That'll go away in a day or two. Your food probably isn't appetizing because you're sick. When your nose is plugged up, if affects your other senses too."

Castiel swallowed again then put his sandwich down with perceptible despair. Sam wanted to slap himself for not realizing it sooner.

"You haven't been eating because of your sore throat. It's because you can't taste the food."

Castiel barely shrugged. Then he began to scratch his left arm, like an insect was burrowing its way under his skin. His red face expressed frustration, and Dean cursed.

"I'm sorry for making you feel worse, Cas," Dean said, leaning forward.

Cas just shrugged again: shoulders up, shoulders down, a great impersonation of a moody teenager.

Dean pretended to ignore the response and placed two allergy pills in Castiel's palm. "These will make the rash go away."

Cas looked to Sam for approval, and Sam nodded swiftly, grabbing a cold 7-Up from his grocery sack.

"Best beverage for being sick."

Castiel washed the medicine down with the soda.

"Now eat," Sam commanded, weirded out that he reminded himself of his dad.

And, much to Sam's amazement, Cas _did_ eat, slowly and methodically. Sam ate too. And Dean. One big, happy, not-talking family. Sam folded his hands in his lap.

He had his work cut out for him.

 **To be continued…**

 **A/N:** Hope you enjoyed more feels in this one! This story originally had only one more chapter left, but I felt a burst of inspiration last week and wrote an epilogue chapter, which could potentially spiral off into either more chapters or a separate fic, depending on how much time I have next month to write. Thanks so much for all the reviews, favorites, and follows—you are splendiferous!


	4. Dreams Come True

**The Desired Effect**

 **Chapter 4: Dreams Come True**

Dean—never one for silent meals—said, "So, maple bars and whiskey, huh? You got some stories you're not telling us, Cas?"

Cas replied by popping a frozen blueberry in his mouth and lowering his head. Sam read the motion as one of dejection, but Dean scoffed and took it as Cas ignoring him again. In a huff, he loaded his plate with goodies and ambled over to the bed closest to the bathroom, plopping down on it with gusto. He picked up the remote from the bedside table and turned on the TV.

Sam smirked over his sandwich. "You better not choose any crap."

"First one to the remote gets to pick, bystander shuts his cakehole," rattled off Dean quickly, a phrase he had uttered so many times in so many variations that it came out instantaneously.

Castiel feigned disinterest, but Sam could tell that he was watching the two brothers closely. So Sam decided to play a little game.

He took his plate and sauntered over to the opposite bed, mirroring Dean by propping himself up against the pillows and continuing to rib his brother over his programming choices.

"Dr. Sexy MD? Really?"

"The characters are compelling!" Dean protested.

"Yeah, if you've recently been sedated."

Sam watched Castiel out of the corner of his eye as the angel slowly pivoted in his seat. He observed them a few moments more before picking up his soft drink and wandering over to the beds. Sam pretended not to be in suspense over which bed Cas chose to sit on.

Then Cas sat right next to him. Sam shot a glance at Dean and read the masked hurt on his brother's face. This was unheard of. Dean and Cas were buddies. What the hell had happened?!

But no matter how much Castiel's small betrayal had hurt him, Dean carried on with his usual TV commentator banter, especially during commercials. Sam and Dean improvised back and forth, making a game of picking on the random TV shows Dean flicked to.

 _Ancient Aliens_ had to be their favorite. Sam groaned when Dean settled on it.

"Not this again!" he whined, although he was secretly delighted.

"This show is excellent, Sammy. Shut up."

Castiel scratched his right leg unconsciously, turning a questioning eye to the younger brother. "Why do you dislike this show, Sam?"

Sam sighed. "There's this guy on the show—"

"—the _aliens_ guy," Dean cut in, grinning, his hands gesticulating wildly.

"—and he thinks that pretty much _everything_ that happened a long time ago was caused by aliens."

Castiel blinked, seemingly still confused.

"You know… _E.T., The X Files,_ little green men?"

Realization finally came over the angel. "I see."

"It's totally bogus, but Dean loves torturing me."

Dean stuck his tongue out at his brother. "This show is the _best_ for drinking games."

Sam scoffed. "When was the last time _you_ played a drinking game, Dean?"

"Last Thursday, at 2:00 in the afternoon, when you were at the library."

Sam laughed, and they settled down to watch the episode. Ironically, the show was about how old texts in the Bible outlined UFO technology and the presence of extra-terrestrials in ancient Israel. Turns out angels were really aliens.

"How about that, Cas?" Sam quipped then turned around when his friend didn't respond.

"Hmm…?" Cas murmured softly.

The angel's head was tilted back against a pillow, and he looked completely drained of energy. His eyes were glassy and only half-open.

"What's wrong with him?" Dean abruptly leaned over in his bed, eyes flashing concern.

"Cas?" Sam leaned over him, shaking the angel gently.

Castiel blinked slowly, focusing on Sam with a bit more lucidity, but his voice was still small and far-away sounding. "This show is… not historically accurate…"

Sam suddenly figured it out. "It's the allergy medicine," he said to Dean.

"Feel…so…tired," Cas said in a whisper.

"Just go to sleep," said Dean gently. "Don't try to fight it."

Cas must have heard the words, but again he looked at Sam for direction and permission. Sam nodded, and Castiel's eyes slipped close.

Carefully, Sam moved Castiel so that he was in a more comfortable position and pulled an extra blanket over him while Dean turned down the volume on the TV. His older brother stood up and approached Castiel's prone form warily.

"You think he's gonna be okay?"

Sam looked down at the sleeping figure, eyes closed, breathing husky but steady.

"Maybe another dose of allergy medicine, and then we'll try him on new antibiotics."

Dean crossed to the hidden stash of whiskey and poured himself a drink in a paper cup. It was only a little after noon, but they had all had a rough morning.

He sipped his drink and sat back on his bed. "Why don't you head back to our motel, Sam? Look into those interviews we were gonna do today with the witnesses. I'll pick up some different medicine for Cas and stick around a few days until he's better."

Sam had had just about enough of Dean trying to take over. The truth needed to come out eventually. "Why don't you want me around him?"

Silence hung in the air. "Would you believe me if I told you that keeping Cas safe was only possible if he stayed far away from us?"

"That's crap, Dean."

Dean shot back, "That's the only way he's not gonna get hurt, and you know it!"

Sam struggled to find words to express his frustration with his brother at the moment. "Even if that might have been true, today only proves how helpless he is." Both of them looked down at the sleeping once-an-angel, vulnerability seeping out of his frail body. "Dean, he's like a child sometimes. He's new to this human stuff, and until he learns how to protect himself as a human, we have to look out for him."

Dean looked down, as if ashamed. "Cas is so proud though. It's weird to think that he was once so powerful—strong enough to pull my ass out of hell."

"Biggest mistake of his life," Sam teased. His older brother looked up at him, and the tension instantly broke in the room. Dean laughed freely, and Sam did too.

Then something happened.

Sam had experienced similar occurrences ever since the events of the third trial. It was as if his vision skipped a few paces into the future—catching Dean with a completely different expression on his face than the one he had just been wearing. Dean had been laughing only a second before; now he was looking down at Cas somberly.

Sam scratched his head. He must be tired—the stress of the morning was beginning to take its toll on his brain.

"What I'm trying to say is: Just let me help you take care of him for a little bit."

Dean nodded, jerking slightly, as if Sam's words had caught him off guard. He suddenly appeared devastated.

"Hey," Sam said, coaxing him.

Dean looked up, questioning.

"Have some more whiskey."

His brother chuckled, setting the cup down. "No, I have to go get the new medicine." And he left the motel room soundlessly.

Sam checked on Castiel again to make sure the angel was comfortable, and then he went about clearing up the food. He sat outside in the glorious reprieve from rain and ate an orange, then went back inside and sat on the bed Dean had previously occupied, taking out his laptop and doing some more research on ghouls, as Dean had suggested, anything that might help them while they were waylaid with Cas.

Dean showed up less than an hour later, and Sam realized how comfortable he felt with all of them together again. It just felt right somehow.

"He wake up?" Dean asked immediately, taking out a fresh pill bottle of antibiotics and setting it on the table by the door.

"No, he's been dead to the world," said Sam.

Dean tossed his brother a giant pack of peanut M & Ms and jumped to sit next to him in bed, whiskey bottle in hand.

"Want some?"

"No thanks. I was just about to make some tea."

And that's how the rest of the day went: pure bliss. Dean channel surfing and making fun of the home shopping networks. Sam browsing the Internet and chiding Dean for getting too loud. It was almost like they were young again, left in a motel room for a few days on the weekend while their dad was away on a hunt. Sam got up every now and then to check on Cas, and Dean checked on Cas every five minutes. They ate snacks instead of meals, and Dean eventually passed out around midnight. Sam draped covers over him, turned off the TV and his laptop, and finally succumbed to sleep too, next to Dean. The last thing he remembered thinking before closing his eyes was: _I got my brother back._

* * *

Castiel woke up a little after 12:30 AM to complete darkness. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was and instantly felt afraid of something about to attack him—renegade angels, perhaps, or conniving vengeful demons, or both. But then he heard the faint snores and sound of peaceful breathing beside him, and he remembered.

He was alone in a bed. Through the dim light of red electric numbers on a nearby alarm clock, he could make out Sam's and Dean's sleeping forms in the bed to his left. Castiel swallowed a painfully dry throat and attempted sitting up. He felt better, aside from still not being able to breathe properly through his nose. An itch along his spine caused him to spasm and begin scratching on various places all over his body. A second later, he recalled his allergy to the antibiotics and willed himself to stop scratching. He sighed quietly. Being a human was so difficult. Castiel tried to imagine what would have happened if Sam and Dean had not come to his rescue, and the thought left him shivering.

Slowly he stood up, swaying slightly and clutching the corner of the bed for support. His head felt too hot and his throat was sore. He shuffled to the bathroom sink to a fill a cup with some water. Inadvertently, he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror when he turned on the light and marveled at the pink tinge of his skin. The rash was clearing up, but it wasn't completely gone. Probably why he was still itching. Dark circles still ringed his eyes and made him blink to see if the strange figure would go away. But it didn't. There he was—still sick and weak and ashamed to be in the same room as the Winchesters.

Why had Dean helped him when it had been so clear that he wanted nothing to do with him? Castiel couldn't blame the man. Practically every time Castiel had gone to the brothers it was for help or because he had made a monumental mistake he needed their help in fixing. Castiel felt his shame spread over him, more painful than the rash already affecting his skin. He should just go.

Castiel stumbled but managed to pad to the door of the motel room without waking the Winchesters. He could step outside and run away. But where? He wouldn't be able to return to his job because they knew where he worked now. Castiel would be able to survive being homeless, but it wasn't a way of living he had been particularly adept at. In fact, he had almost died last time he lived on the streets. Indeed, it was only a matter of time, if he was homeless, that an enemy would find him…

Castiel would take his chances. He opened the door and stared at the blinding rush of water as it poured outside, thick sheets of rain blowing cold wind and water into his face. Despite the inclement weather, Castiel was prepared to brave it to avoid Dean…when he noticed something.

In fact, it was something he noticed was _missing._ Sigils. Protective sigils. Sam and Dean had never marked the doors. Which meant that they might be more vulnerable if he left, even if he left the gun Sam had lent him. By comparison, _he_ had an angel blade. Castiel looked back uncertainly at the two still forms, sleeping peacefully, and he slowly closed the door. He couldn't leave them alone and unprotected like that, even if Dean didn't care about his own fate.

With that, Castiel grabbed his cell phone and the bottle of allergy medicine and went back to the bathroom. Being as quiet as he could, he dialed his work phone and left a message for Nora, saying that he was still sick and would have to miss another day. Then he swallowed two of the allergy pills, turned off the light, and grabbed his angelic weapon.

He pulled up a chair from the table by the window and sat in the darkness, watching the brothers sleep and feeling peaceful for the first time since he woke up. After all, he had a purpose now—protecting the Winchesters. This was something he was relatively good at. It had been the main function for his creation, after all.

Castiel didn't know how long he sat, guarding the men, until the coughing started again.

* * *

Dean woke up to harsh hacking—a lung rattling, that I've-been-smoking-a-pack-a-day-for-fifty-years sound. It jarred him out of bed immediately, walking around to Sam's side of the bed to turn on a light on the nightstand. Yellow light warmly flooded the small room and illuminated the figure sitting on a chair close to the beds, next to the TV stand.

"Cas?" Dean said groggily, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He checked the alarm clock, and it read 1:00 A.M.

He cursed softly, noticing Sam roll over in his sleep. His little brother mumbled something unintelligible, then—"Dean?"

"Go back to sleep, Sammy," Dean said reflexively, and his younger sibling complied right away, rolling back over like he was five years old again.

The coughing, however, had not stopped. Dean, a bit more awake now, rushed to the smaller man, and placed a soothing hand in the small of his back.

"Easy. Easy, Cas. It's all right. Let me get some water." Dean staggered to the table and brought back the nearest cup without thinking. Cas took a large gulp and instantly wheezed, spluttering with a choked cry.

Dean grabbed the cup and winced when he smelled its contents. "Whiskey! Sorry, Cas!"

The ex-angel's eyes were watering as Dean ran around the room to grab a different cup and some water. How many times was he going to screw up? How many times would Cas get hurt in the process?

Dean eventually got a water cup, and Cas drank from it greedily, the course coughs eventually dying out. Dean knelt beside him, rubbing his back.

Cas rasped, "Thanks.'

Maybe it was due to tiredness, but Dean almost didn't notice that it was the first time Cas had directly spoken to him in 12 hours. The fleeting recognition ended when Dean saw just how haggard Cas still looked—although his rash was clearing up, he remained pallid.

"You warm?" Dean asked rhetorically, reaching up to place a hand on the man's forehead. It was slightly above average. "When your rash goes away, we'll get you the new antibiotics."

There was a moment of silence, then Cas said: "I thought you…didn't want me."

Dean felt his own face go hot. "No, no, it's not that at all. I wanted you to stay away from me so I wouldn't end up harming you anymore."

Castiel sighed, his eyes glassy and confused. "That makes no sense. I was an angel of the Lord. I can take care of myself."

Dean's first instinct was to respond sarcastically about the number of times he had to drag Castiel's ass out of Purgatory, or a nest of murderous angels, etc., but then he thought better of it.

"I know, Cas. It's just…Anyone who has ever been close to me eventually gets hurt. You…You almost died the last time I saw you because of me. I don't want that to happen again."

And even though it was clothed in a lie, part of Dean believed what he said to be true.

Castiel coughed once—gratingly—and then rocked back in his seat, settling down. He eyed Dean in a softer manner.

Dean wasn't going to apologize, but the words suddenly slipped out: "Cas, I'm sorry."

Castiel's eyebrows arched in surprise. "It's all right, Dean—"

"I'm sorry for abandoning you when you needed us the most. I'm sorry for backing out on our friendship and neglecting you… I'm sorry for letting you down so bad that I wasn't the first one you called when you needed help." It all came out in one breath before Dean could stop to check his emotions. Tears threatened to slip out from beneath his sleepy eyelids. But when he looked at Cas, he realized he didn't need to cry; the angel was crying for him.

"I forgive you," Castiel said.

They sat that way for several minutes, Dean's hand on Castiel's back as the man worked through his feelings. Then, Dean had to ask the inevitable:

"So—what were you _doing_ just now?"

"I was going to run away," Cas said, his words slurring a bit.

Dean listened to the rain pounding on the roof mercifully. "Good thing the weather stopped you."

"It didn't," Cas said pointedly, to Dean's surprise. "I needed to protect you."

Then Dean noticed the angel blade on the floor by Castiel's feet. He picked it up and set it on the table as Cas blew his nose miserably.

"My hero," Dean said. "Let's get you back to bed. But first, more allergy medicine."

"Already took it," said Cas, his eyelids beginning to droop spectacularly now.

"Ah, that would explain your narcolepsy impression," Dean said dryly, grabbing Castiel by the shoulders as he attempted to stand. Dean had anticipated the maneuver wouldn't go so well, and Castiel's legs went out from under him.

"What happened?" Cas mumbled, his face creased sweetly in innocent confusion as Dean took on the majority of his weight.

"Time for bed," said Dean cheerfully. "You can try out for the ballet again next year. Chicks really go for dancers."

Castiel let Dean guide him to bed, his eyes mostly closed now. "Would I be a good dancer?"

Dean cleared his throat to stifle laughter. "Cas, you'd be the next Baryshnikov!"

Once the former angel was in bed, Dean pulled the covers around him, just under his chin. And though his words were nearly unintelligible, and his eyes were now closed, Cas said, "Stay with me."

Dean stopped in his tracks and paused to turn out the light. He knew he could never fully come to terms with his own guilt that night, but it was almost as if Castiel was making things right; just forgiving him had already lifted some of that tremendous weight off Dean's shoulders. Drowsiness began to drift across the Winchester's vision, and he said, "All right," sliding in beside Castiel as he turned out the light. In his sleep, Cas turned towards Dean on his side, and Dean didn't move one muscle. All three of them were together, and they were safe. That's all that mattered.

* * *

Castiel woke up the next morning to find himself alone. His heart immediately leapt out of his chest with fear and panic until he spotted the note on the pillow where Dean had slept last night. He moved his hand sleepily to grab the note, noticing the pill bottle it was wrapped around. Castiel carefully unfurled the note and read Dean's zig-zagged handwriting.

 _Cas—_

 _Take two pills twice a day. Have left food for you and paid your rent for the week. Will call you later tonight after we get done with this hunt. Call me if you need anything._

 _Dean_

Castiel felt a simultaneous rush of gratitude and sadness after reading the note. On one hand, at least Dean had _left_ a note, but on the other hand he hoped that they had parted on better terms. He grabbed a banana from the table and slowly ate it in bed, then swallowed two of the antibiotic pills. The rest of the day, Castiel remained mostly in bed, enthralled by the plethora of TV programs at his fingertips, eating now and then, and napping off and on.

He kept his cell phone by the bed just in case Dean called, but the line remained free. At around seven o'clock, Cas realized that Dean probably wasn't going to call.

Then he heard a knock on the door.

Castiel almost forgot to look through the peephole in his excitement at having company, and when he opened the door he had to hide his obvious enthusiasm.

"Hello, Dean!" His face felt flushed, his vision suddenly blurring.

The older Winchester shifted the sack of groceries in his arms to one hip, reaching out with his free arm in concern. "Cas—you okay?"

"Y—yes," Castiel said, looking away to try and hide his emotion. "I just didn't think I'd see you again."

Dean's face visibly paled, and he attempted a crooked grin. "You know that's not my style. Not really."

Cas moved aside as Dean awkwardly shuffled inside the motel room, depositing the bulging sack of groceries. "Sam drove me to the store for you… We caught the ghoul! I thought some post-ganking celebrations were in order."

While Dean busied himself with laying out all the edible treats, Castiel stood alongside him, silently watching. He wanted to thank Dean, but the appreciations died in his throat. As his mind cleared, Castiel found it racing from one improbable situation to the next. _Dean cared. Then he didn't. Now he does_. The answer seemed to lie squarely with someone currently missing in the vicinity.

"It's Sam, isn't it?" Castiel said quietly.

Dean froze, turning around, paper bag crinkling. His hands remained outstretched, eyes narrowed.

"Cas—" he began.

"It was Sam all along. Not me. I can't be around him. Why?" Castiel was thinking out loud now, his mental capacities fully returning from weeks and weeks of sickness. But with the clarity came the predictable cold chill.

Dean spoke very quietly, his words merely whispers, but they were precise and intense. "I can't tell you."

Castiel said, "Leave."

Dean didn't move an inch. His hands remained palms-down, trying to diffuse the situation, but his eyes betrayed the truth of his words. In the end, Castiel believed Dean because of his eyes.

"I can't tell you, but let me help you."

Castiel took a deep breath, wanting to go along with Dean despite his instincts. "You're leaving after tonight, I expect. And I'll stay here, in the dark."

"What I said before is true. I don't want you to get hurt. What we do, Cas, it's… It's gonna kill me one of these days. I can't let that happen to you."

Silence.

Dean licked his lips. "I convinced Sam to go on a hunt a few towns over. We'll stay in Idaho or a neighboring state, and I'll come to see you as often as I can. Trust me."

Castiel thought back to the past few months, to sleeping in a cold locker room, the smell of bottom-of-the-pot coffee and toilets. He felt like he had lost his faith a long time ago.

"Trust me."

But he couldn't lose his faith in Dean Winchester.

"Okay."

The next day, Castiel went back to work at the Gas-N-Sip. It was the first time in over a month that he could breathe through his nose, and he relished the smell of fresh rain. He had decided to stay at the motel for a few more weeks until he could save up enough to find a cheap rental somewhere. He worked through the day differently; Castiel continued to put care and effort into his job, but he was also looking forward to a warm bed now, the entertainment of cable TV, and the possibility of seeing a friend.

Deep down, Castiel still doubted that the man would show up. Nevertheless, he heated some microwavable meals, tossed a salad, and opened two single serving containers of cherry pie he had purchased from the convenience store.

It was 7:30 PM, and Castiel waited, his ears pricked for any nearby engines or car doors slamming. He must have dozed off when he heard a familiar knocking. Racing from his seat on the bed, Castiel flung open the door to find the man he had rescued from Hell standing there, a soft smile on his face.

"I hope you bought pie, 'cause I've had a hell of a day."

Castiel beamed and ushered him in wordlessly. In that moment, his trust was solidified, and he knew it would never waver again.

After all, Dean Winchester had showed up.

Fin.

 **A/N:** This is where the original ending of this fic was, but I am in the process of writing an epilogue chapter I will post next week. Thanks so much again for your reviews! I always appreciate them. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
